The Remains by Vincent Zandri Read Free Book Online

to the two men who would give
the interior a swift cleaning. One teenage boy and a short,
white-haired, white-bearded, slow moving man who looked like he
might be pushing one-hundred. The old man smiled through all that
white hair, asked me to step out of the car ever so briefly while
they vacuumed the interior, washed the seats and windshield. In the
bay beside me, a well-dressed middle-aged woman who drove a black
Mercedes Benz was all worked up. She couldn’t locate her cell
phone. She was sure she’d had it on her when she entered the car
wash.
    A big man in khakis and blue shirt that had
the words ‘Hollywood Carwash’ stitched on the breast pocket assured
her he’d do everything in his power to scour the car for it.
Because after all it probably just slid behind the seats. He’d seen
it happen “a thousand and one times before. Make that a thousand
and two.” But she just made a face and with a dismissive wave of
her hand, got back in the car and peeled out, no doubt on her way
to purchase a brand new cell phone. When you’re rich, the cost of a
new cell phone is pocket change.
    As the two men completed cleaning the
interior of the Cabriolet, I felt my jacket pocket for my own cell
phone.
    Yup, still there. I guess you could never be
too careful about such things.
    The old man smiled at me once more. He looked
into my face for more than a few fleeting seconds, as if he sensed
a familiarity. Getting back in the car I pulled down the window,
reached out to hand him a five dollar tip.
    Overgenerous?
    Maybe.
    But he seemed like such a nice old guy. It
made me sad that he had to work at a car wash at his advanced age.
He thanked me, asked me to have a nice day in a voice that was both
soft and raspy.
    I pulled out of the carwash feeling much
better about myself. Hanging a quick left, I made my way for the
downtown and the start of the rest of my life.

Chapter 10
     
     
    BUT RUSH HOUR TRAFFIC was a bear.
    By the time I stopped off at the Stagecoach
Coffee Shop on State Street for a double latte-to-go, the clock had
already reached the back side of nine o’clock. This meant that
Robyn would be operating the art center all by her lonesome.
Something neither one of us appreciated since the not-for-profit,
art patron-funded organization employed only two people to do all
the studio tutoring, gallery event planning, bill paying, public
relations, and just about everything required of running an art
center.
    I got back in the Cabriolet with my coffee,
headed for the Broadway parking garage and parked in my designated
by-the-month rental space. On my way out of the garage, my cell
vibrated. Approaching the congested city sidewalk, I dug out the
phone and flipped it open.
    The screen indicated another new text. I
swallowed something and thumbed the OK button that opened the
message.
    Remember
    That one word, like the last time I’d
received it, made no sense to me.
    Remember what?
    What in God’s name was going on?
    Per usual I thumbed the OK button that was
supposed to reveal the caller’s name and number only to get Unknown
Caller.
    “Molly,” I whispered, purely out of
instinct.
    I was becoming more and more convinced Molly
was trying to communicate with me from the dead. Maybe it helped me
to imagine her living in heaven. But then, what if heaven did not
exist?
    Distracted by the sudden emptiness I felt,
not to mention anxiety, I nearly ran into a tall suited man
carrying a black briefcase.
    “Watch where you’re going, young lady,” he
snapped.
    I evil-eyed him as he passed.
    “If I knew were I was going,” I said, “I
wouldn’t be here.”

Chapter 11
     
     
    I FINALLY ARRIVED AT the studio at a little
past nine-thirty.
    My stomach sank when I saw Franny.
    Franny in attendance, the second day in a
row. Even though he was the studio’s Painter-In-Residence, his
visits usually averaged once or twice a month, depending upon his
production as an artist. Usually he brought in a completed or near
completed